SYLPH

                       

SYLPH 

In bed with arm up stretched a slow coolness slips

silkily slowly to cross palm with gentle comfort.

No human hand this, well not alive in a real sense

nor a nightly dream, a gift, a touch delivered unseen.

Her aura a delicate bouquet, a floral fragrance floats

smoothly silently riding above dark waves of night.

Just as a beach is I too am smoothed settled to sleep

Tended by unknown sylph till daylight breaks her spell.

         © MRL August 2014

A POETRY READING

I have been asked to do a poetry reading  

I asked on what date 

She said on national poetry day

I bowed my head in gratitude

For this was something I never knew

To think in all my years of scribbling

When I wrote October is Golden

that this is what it meant!

And not the tumbling bronze leaves

nor the demise of a dear friend.

Where shall I start 

chronologically perhaps

At the beginning

When in my head two part lines tumbled

On searching they were never found

"through green swards we walked..

..lovers in a dew scented forest"

Timid,afraid of plagiarism

They were never used

Not even now not owned by me

Nor cannot be

Even though they echo in my head

Perhaps some literary buff

an academic of renown

Will quote from a long forgotten

little known dusty historic ode

To bring me down and into shame.

[to be on October 2nd 2014]

©MRL 31-03-14

An Ode to Winter Gales

I hear high hitched on Leinster wires witches whine 

Ugly hags no mother ever conceived nor father sired

Tormented unbodied things born of wild restless winds

Whose shrill screams storm my equilibrium to shreds.

©MRL 26-01-2014

Moon Is...

Moon is 

                                              subtle

Oval ivory white

                                                         countenance

A sensuous glow

                                                  disturbs

Who sits in quiet

                                                        encourages

Observance

                                                       merriment

At least

                                                                 pleasures         

Tempts one

                                                   desires

To believe so

                                                love 

Innocent  

                                               lust

       

                       She is an Earthy Woman

©MRL 15-01-2014

GALE FORCE 12

A Wind as sharp as a surgeons scalpel scythed

cylindrical things trees and wires to fall 

dumb on damned storm sodden ground.

Twenty-three hours of south Atlantic gale blew

A thousand banshees to scream. Howl, hanging

on corners of houses, old hags un-prettily dressed.

Merciless waves pounded hard faced cliffs, sentinels

standing doggedly against dull drumbeats of death.

In retrospect. Sense soldiers stories from the Front

of continuous bombardment and lulls of silence 

that heralded the wailing of Moaning Minnies.

No War now. Just an atmospheric battle, a hurricane

that a modern God cannot prevent.    We rely upon

ancient gods of this island Anu, Bríd, Daghda and Lugh

to intercept on our behalf with their mighty wisdom.

These guardians of animals, crops, fields and rivers

ever alive these proud providers of their people.

Over whose sleeping lands of winter they walk 

treading old paths from stone forts to raths.

© MRL 29-12-13

Into the Heart of Isis

‘Into the Heart of Isis’

On a gibbous november moon she flew

leaving her earthly body

The last breath exhaled returned to source.

Olivia Melian Durdin-Robertson gave

one final act of farewell. 

Provided from a secret source 

she sprinkled Rosa Mystica on her friends.

A priestess high among many, a pacifist

an artist, an author and a scholar.

She served her dedicated mistress Isis

A life giving service.

Their teachings like stones combined

as mixed marbles of colour

will weather all storms.

Olivia a woman who enjoyed life

who knew heaven was happiness.

Her aristocracy melded well with socialism

giving a generous sincerity to all.

Convivial in company of quiet humour

she enjoyed a glass of port by the fire

As this poor poet and others know.

So do not mourn. 

Olivia is not gone from us

for she flew fully alive 

to the heart of Isis.

Rather rejoice in all that she taught 

in her life’s work of ninety six years. 

© MRL 17th Nov 2013

Hallowe'en

To the door 

no child has come

No joy,

No trick or treat

No chocolate given

For the dead 

Alone is

Hallowe'en!

©MRL 31st Oct 2013